And I'll Look After You
by middlecyclone
Summary: The day after the Season Two finale, Red Sky in the Morning. "And now, rain. Sudden, heavy rain against the windows of the Teahouse and just, barely the sound of thunder. Patrick turns to look over his shoulder and turns back around, smiling and smiling."


Teresa Lisbon can't sleep. She gets up and pads to her kitchen in the dark. She opens the freezer and squints in the light. She pours herself a small glass of whiskey and downs it without even thinking. She can't remember the last time she had a drink, but tonight is different. She is worried about him. So worried about him. Her eyes fill with tears at the thought of him. That doesn't happen a lot, but it happens, yes. And it is happening now. And it's time for work anyway. She heads to the bathroom and turns on the water for her bath, testing it on the tender underside of her wrist until it's almost too hot.

It's been three days since Jane saw Red John face to face and she gave him one day. One day to stay home and avoid everyone. One day to ignore his phone. One day to disappear. She misses him and misses his ridiculously electric smile and how his eyes turn down at the corners. She misses that already. And she is sick with worry about him at this point.

And luckily today is an easy day. Paperwork and meetings, but nothing too pressing. She gets out of the office at a decent time. And then she calls him when she can't stand it any longer. She calls him on her drive home from work. She dials his number and catches herself holding her breath.

It rings twice and then he answers.

"Jane? It's me," she says.

"Oh hey," he says. He sounds sleepy but she knows he probably hasn't slept. She decides to ask him anyway.

"Were you sleeping?" she asks.

"You know I wasn't. Are you just being cute?"

"You're right. I was merely making sure you were still you," she says.

"I'm still me," he says. Maybe he laughs a little bit. She can't tell.

She wonders if he is smiling right now. She hopes so.

"Jane?"

"Lisbon?"

"Are you okay?" she asks.

He doesn't say anything.

"I'm worried about you," she adds. Her eyes fill with tears again and she cradles the phone between her cheek and shoulder and uses one hand to drive and one to wipe her eyes. She knows he lied when he told her Red John hadn't said anything to him. She just wonders how long it will take him to tell her the truth. Or if he ever will.

"I just want you to know that I'm your friend. And I'm here if you do need to talk," she says.

"I know. Thank you for being my friend," he says.

"Good. Well, that's all. I just wanted to check up on you," she says.

"I'd like a cup of tea, actually," he says.

"Oh. Okay. Do you want me to come pick you up? Because I will," she says.

"That'd be nice," he says.

"Where are you?" she asks.

And he tells her.

She thinks over lots of things on her drive but mostly, she berates herself for being so jealous of his date with Kristina. Kristina is missing now. But that only crosses her mind once. The rest of the time, she wonders if she and Jane had kissed. If he really likes her. She forces herself to stop and moments later, the same thoughts. Over and over. Her mind, skipping rope.

_ But. What if._

Irrational as it is. _Is it? _She feels like a bit of Jane belongs to her and only her. In some way. He is hers and she is his. _Patrick._ And she knows he's still in love with his wife and that nothing can ever compete with that. She knows it. But it doesn't change anything. She still loves him anyway. And that part is easy because he's loveable. He is. _He is._

Patrick Jane is buttoning up his vest and he looks in the mirror and he changes his mind. He goes to the closet and takes a pair of dark brown corduroy pants off of their hanger. He pulls out a grey t-shirt and he takes off his suit and he puts on the cords and he puts on the grey t-shirt and he gets a sweater and pulls it over his head. It is blue-grey and he's never worn it before. He reaches behind his neck and snatches the tag off.

He goes to the bathroom mirror and knows she'll be able to tell he's been crying, but he doesn't care. But he splashes his face with cold water anyway and runs his fingers through his hair. He washes his hands for no real reason and dries them and twists his wedding band around and around. A hard and perfect circle. Forever a reminder of lots of things. Of lovely and perfect and awful and terrible things. He takes one last look in the mirror before flicking off the light.

_Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,_

_ In the forests of the night,_

_ What immortal hand or eye_

_ Could frame thy fearful symmetry?_

He's been chanting it for three days now, William Blake. Like a prayer, like something sacred. Sometimes he says it aloud. Sometimes he only says parts of it. He hasn't told anyone. He doesn't know if he wants to. It's his. _The truth is mine. _

This hotel. He likes staying anywhere else now. His old house feels less like a house every time he goes back. It's a museum now. An office with a bathroom. A skeleton. A funeral home. Memories. Everything and also, nothing.

He's outside now. He sees her car and walks over to it.

"Look at you in your street clothes," she says after she leans over to unlock and open the door for him. She smiles.

"You like? Special occasion calls for special clothes, don't you think?" he says, smiling over at her as he sits down and shuts the car door and she takes off.

"What's the special occasion?"

"You, Lisbon," he says, putting his hands on his knees and taking a deep breath.

"I'm flattered," she says.

"Can I drive?" he asks.

"Absolutely not," she says.

She smiles and he smiles too and he looks at her for a moment too long; watches her green green eyes flashing.

He orders an Earl Grey at the Teahouse and so does she. He puts milk in his mug first, but she drinks hers black with a little sugar. She likes watching him make his tea. He takes his time with it. The ritual is comforting to her. Especially here. Especially tonight.

"I'm worried about you," Lisbon says to him after they take their seats by the window. She loves seeing him in his street clothes. That sweater. Those pants. She wants to make sure she's not blushing. She puts her hand to her face.

Then she cups her warm mug in her hands and presses her lips to the porcelain before taking a small sip.

"Eh," he says, shaking his head. He dunks his teabag in the water once and then again, before mirroring her sip.

"I am. I'm trying to give you your space, but I can't stop thinking about everything that's happened and what's going on in your brain. Whether you're getting crazy about all of this. What sneaky thing you're planning next-" she says and stops herself. She doesn't want him to think she blames him for anything that happened. She's protective of him. Doesn't want him to get hurt. The tears come to her eyes again and she blinks them back. She knows that he notices, but she looks down and studies the bottom of her mug.

And now, rain. Sudden, heavy rain against the windows of the Teahouse and just, barely the sound of thunder. Patrick turns to look over his shoulder and turns back around, smiling and smiling.

"I love when it does that," he says, nodding towards the window. Towards the rain and the night sky.

"Are you really okay?" she asks, reaching out to touch his hand.

"I will be," he says. He takes her hand and squeezes it quickly. He nods and takes another sip of his tea.

She wants to ask him how scared he is. Or if he really likes Kristina. If he misses her. She wants so badly to know what he's thinking. But she doesn't say any of that. She just pretends to stir her tea.

On the ride back home, he asks her.

"Do you mind if I stay at your place? No funny business. I just don't want to go anywhere else right now," he says softly. Barely smiles.

"Of course. Of course," she says.

And when they're at her place, they end up sitting next to each other on the couch and they flip through the television channels before turning it off. Then he gets up to make himself a sandwich and when he comes back, she is sleeping. Lying on her side on the couch, curled up like a kitten. He eats his sandwich standing up. He goes to the window to see that the rain has stopped. He puts his empty plate in her sink. Pours himself a glass of water and drinks it.

He goes back over to the couch and sits down and gently places her head in his lap. He hasn't been this close to a woman in so long. It feels both normal and strange. She stirs the tiniest bit and he gives a soft _shh_ before closing his eyes and falling asleep. He has long, confusing dreams. And the poem is on a loop now.

_Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,_

_ In the forests of the night,_

_ What immortal hand or eye_

_ Could frame thy fearful symmetry?_

_ Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,_

_ In the forests of the night,_

_ What immortal hand or eye_

_ Could frame thy fearful symmetry?_

_ Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,_

_ In the forests of the night,_

_ What immortal hand or eye_

_ Could frame thy fearful symmetry?_

He gasps when his eyes finally open but finds her still sleeping; the orange light of the early morning sun is on his face.


End file.
